Reveal-ations: The Dead Are Never Dead To Us
by Graysonation
Summary: When his heart stopped, so did theirs – and even if the breath somehow miraculously resumed at some point, everyone in the Hankel house knew right then that something had died in front of them. (A oneshot; the missing team reactions from "Revelations.")


**Author's Note:** I will always uphold that the wonderful writers of _Criminal Minds_ screwed up big-time in the second season of the show, and missed out on some fabulous opportunities to play with Reid and Hankle when they still had the two in their clutches. And, of course, we'll never get to see plenty of things on the show, but that doesn't mean I'm any less curious.

So, here now because I couldn't motivate my brain to think about updating "Time" early, is another missing scene from the episode "Revelations" that always bugged me; the way the members of the BAU felt watching their youngest and most innocent slip away right before their very eyes. (Sorta-kinda follows my vignette "Something Wicked," but easily can be a stand-alone.)

**Warnings: **Swearing, guilty thoughts, some imagery . . . (temporary) character death, I s'pose.

**Disclaimer:** . . . You can hear the crickets chirping too, right? *Sighs* Ugh . . . not mine.

Feel free to review if you have something you want to say. Or don't, I'm pretty chill either way. Just make sure to keep calm, read, and, above all . . .

. . . Enjoy!

* * *

_"I'll bleed out for you. _

_So, I bear my skin, and I count my sins . . . _

_and I'll close my eyes and take it in. _

_I'm bleeding out. I'm bleeding out for you._

_For you." _

___– Imagine Dragons, "Bleeding Out"_

* * *

For at least a minute – and though time seemed to be passing much more slowly, it truly sped by in an instant – Jason Gideon couldn't breathe.

Perhaps a fitting punishment, as the young man on the screen in front of him wasn't breathing, either.

"Oh, god!"

The words drifted through his ears, only registering in the fog of his mind after another few precious, horrible few seconds, and the BAU team's most senior profiler was yanked unceremoniously back into reality by the gasping, sobbing words spoken by a broken-down Penelope Garcia, who was frozen in horror, staring at the computers before them, unable to rip her eyes away from the limp form of Spencer Reid.

_Dead._

Gideon, who hadn't realized he'd been tightly clutching the tech analyst's hand, as if trying to keep himself from slipping away from the present, suddenly let his entire body go limp, defeated, as a tremendous wave of guilt crashed over him, drowning him.

_Spencer is . . . he's . . ._

Jason couldn't bring himself to think the word – not again. He couldn't understand, couldn't deal, couldn't comprehend –

_he'd gotten Reid killed._

Garcia, unaware of it, leaned away from Gideon's failing touch, shrugging herself free of the man who might have just made the youngest, sweetest, most innocent, most _good _person she'd ever known –

_ – Dead. Murdered. Because you –_

_Because __**Tobias**__ –_

**_You_**_ –_

_I –_

Gideon's hands shot up to his head, and he ripped his fingers through his hair, as if willing them to tear right through his scalp, into his brain, into the part of his mind that was making him think these things, feel these feelings, stay _right here _and _right now_ and have to deal with _this –_

He couldn't. Jason Gideon, man with an inspired mind and legend at the FBI, BAU, and who-knew-where-else, did not have the capacity to process everything that had happened – that he'd just _made _happen.

Tugging himself away from the horrible sight in front of him that the agent knew would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life, Gideon, wringing his hands and fighting back nausea, swiftly exited the room.

**XXX**

It had been the loud, weeping sounds of Penelope Garcia that had called the rest of the team into the dismally small, dark room, rushing to see what else could possibly have gone wrong. Entering the cave, what they found themselves confronted with was far worse then any would have imagined.

Garcia, usually bright and bubbly and radiating energy and warmth and light, looked completely and utterly broken, pale and shaking, tears streaming down her face she stared at something on the screens in front of her.

It was Morgan who took the first step towards her, bending down to see what she was looking at.

His heart stopped.

_Reid._

"Babygirl," he whispered dreadfully, praying that what he was seeing didn't mean what he thought it meant, "what –?"

"Hankel." She spluttered, with more bitterness than the agent ever would have thought possible coming from her lips. "He – he was trying to – G-Gideon made me take – t-take the video – we s-said it was a virus, and he – he got _so angry, _D-Derek – !" she broke off, burying her face in Morgan's shoulder as she sobbed, and, in a futile attempt to calm her, the black man held her close and rubbed her back, trying to be some sort of emotional support, some sort of comfort, as he took in the grainy scene the image before him depicted.

The picture was blurry, difficult to see in the surrounding darkness of the night, but Morgan could still tell he was looking at the same room as from the video before; it was shoddy, dirty, and small.

And empty.

_Where is that son of a bitch? _Morgan wondered furiously as Garcia shook in his arms. _I don't see him –_

But he did see the curled figure of his best friend. Dead center of the frame.

_Dead. _

_What?_

Morgan squinted, sending a silent prayer that this wasn't _happening _that this _wasn't real. _

Except that it was. All too much so.

Spencer Reid, still cuffed to the same wooden chair he had been earlier, was lying on the floor, one of his legs sticking out at what must have been an extremely uncomfortable angle for the young genius. The head wound they had seen earlier was still a painful-looking purple color, and Morgan thought something looked wrong with the kid's foot – _where the Hell are his shoes? –_

But that wasn't the worst part. _No._

_NO. _

What had Garcia so upset, and what was rapidly shooting at Morgan's own defenses, was the fact that Spencer Reid – the genius, the profiler, the child prodigy and brother he'd never had – _was not breathing._

Not usually one for emotional displays, Morgan felt tears pricking his eyes as his tough exterior began to crack, watching, waiting, and hoping in vain to see even a slight movement in the fallen man's chest – for any indication that he wasn't –

_Dead._

_No!_ Morgan shoved back the thought with more force than he'd ever thought himself capable of, and struggled not to let the bright sea of red-hot anger overcome him. He couldn't lose it – not here, not now, with his best friend –

_ – dead –_

_in trouble_, and with one of the people he loved so much clutching him like a lifeline. He forced himself instead to pull Garcia closer, trying to be the steady rock that she so clearly, so desperately, needed him to be.

And Derek Morgan did his very best not to break and fall apart – the way his heart was doing right at that very moment.

**XXX**

"A-after T-Tobias saw that we – t-that we tried to shut down the video – he just – he set up the live f-feed again, and he started – he started _hitting Reid, and –"_

Garcia's own gasping, choking sobs cut her off, and she slumped again, wishing she didn't have to remember, that she didn't have to tell them – wishing that it _hadn't happened _in the first place –

_But it did, and now, –_

_Reid's dead._

"He begged him to stop – he _begged_."

Another wail racked her body, and the tech analyst continued to cry, falling apart at the thought that one of the people she cared about the very most in the world – someone she laughed with, joked about, helped and cuddled and coddled and _loved_ – was no longer with them. That he was –

_Dead._

Shaking, Penelope found herself sapped of energy – of will. She had never been built to cope with the type of tragedy that plagued the people around her so often – she was soft creature, one of light and giggling and fluffy things. Things that she thought would mean nothing to her anymore, not if Reid was –

_Dead._

Feeling as if every essential piece of her was being ripped out slowly, painfully, Penelope fought back her urge to melt and disappear into utter nothingness, swallowed hard, and tried to continue telling her teammates – what _remained _of her family – what had happened.

She had to be strong. If just for a minute more.

"I th-think he had a – a h-heart attack."

Garcia finished in a rushing, choking , whisper, her voice weighted with sorrow and anger and remorse, as she finally let herself dissolve in front of them. She didn't care.

All that mattered anymore was that Spencer Reid – her baby boy, her friend, her fellow Whovian, one of her lifelines and everything else – was

_Dead._

And Garcia bawled.

**XXX**

Hotch, always famed and revered and teased for his stoicism, was completely and utterly silent.

_A heart attack? And, now, Reid was –_

_Dead._

Hotch didn't want to think the word, but it forced itself into his mind unbidden, carrying along with it the horrible feelings of sadness constricted with fury, and his gut twisted painfully as he masochistically refused to let his eyes drift from the lifeless image of someone he cared for and respected on the screens before him.

_Dead?_

_Dead._

_It's not fair_, he thought, and had to force himself not to leap through the computers and bash in the head of the sick, twisted individual who had done this to one of his agents. His fingers clenched into tight fists, the nails digging deeply enough into his skin to draw blood.

_No one, _Hotch thought, biting back the urge to destroy something, **_no one_**_ should have to –_

_ – die –_

_like that. _

_Especially not Reid. _

Hotch swallowed tightly, trying to remain impassive and keep a hold on his strong composure simply out of old habit. An old habit that now seemed irrelevant, as he remembered that Spencer had tried to keep his own composure with Tobias Hankel, and now, look what that had gotten him. He was –

_Dead._

Hotch sucked in a huge breath, trying to rationalize that which could not be. Rationalized, that was, as, clearly, Reid _was_ –

_Dead._

The sound of the team breathing – of some weeping, some gasping, and even Hotch's own, mechanical breaths – was the only noise in the room, as for sixty seconds, the Unit Chief allowed himself to wallow deeply in grief, before trying to snap himself back into control. His entire body stiffened, and then relaxed, as he tried to put his feelings on the back burner, tried to orient himself back onto the case. He would mourn as soon as possible – but, right now, he had to be focused, fully present.

_Please, _he thought brokenly, the last coherent words of sadness to make their way across his cluttered mind before he shut them away for good, _please just let him be safe. _

Hotch wasn't a man of any particular faith; but he sent his most fervent, deepest, most desperate wish out into the universe in the form of a prayer as he watched the haphazard, still body of his as-good-as son before him.

_Please . . . wherever he is now, let him just be safe. Warm, and happy, and protected, and safe. Let him be in Heaven. _

**_He_**_ deserves __**that,**_ Hotch thought, as he swiped a hand over his face to remove the single tear.

**XXX**

JJ didn't want to believe it. _Not this – anything but __**this. **_

Spence – her friend, her confidante, her little baby brother – their rambling, bumbling, Bambi-like little genius, he . . . couldn't be _gone, _couldn't be –

_Dead._

She wanted to completely fall apart at that word – wanted to pull her hair out strand by strand, wanted to rip her skin and fingernails through her flesh and bone until she could dig the this horrible, crushing, _murderous _ feeling right out of her body and fling it away – she wanted to collapse, wanted to forget – _wanted it to just not be . . ._

Instead, she got a horrible stinging in her eyes, and wetness on her cheeks – and it took the media liaison more than a minute to realize that desperate, guilty tears were weaving their way down her face, as she finally let out all of the emotions she'd been struggling to keep in check over the past two days came rushing to the surface, spilling up and over and out her eyes and down her face.

She wept.

_It's all my fault, _she knew deep down, and relished the pain and guilt that bit at her with those words, feeling that she deserved them.

_If we hadn't split up, if I was smarter with my gun, if I'd told Spence to wait, if I'd looked for him instead of just standing there, if I was faster, if I was better, if I was stronger – if –_

_– if –_

_– if –_

She couldn't even think clearly anymore, the agony inside of her was so great. She felt as if something had crawled into her chest, wrapped around her heart, and was squeezing it tightly, so constricting, until she would be just as –

_– dead –_

as her dear, dear Spencer.

Always a firm believer in fate, God, kismet, karma – whatever made the world go 'round, even if it was just cheese or love – JJ knew, deep inside herself, that, wherever Reid was _going _(and she choked on the thought) that it would be good. Her Spence _deserved _to go somewhere good, somewhere just as wonderful as he – _was._

Her face crumpled again, and she finally ripped her gaze away from the screen, unable to bear another second of this torture.

Tears leaking from her eyes, she got up, shaking and trembling and seconds away from either collapsing or throwing up as JJ stumbled to leave the room before all of her feelings buried her alive – only to be stopped by the shocked but hesitant voice of Emily Prentiss.

_"Look!"_

**XXX**

She was, admittedly, the newest member of the team, and barely knew Spencer Reid. And, she had, admittedly, seen many horrible things in her short few decades of life. And she did, admittedly, have an infamous knack for bottling up her feelings, for hiding her emotions, for _not _wearing her heart on her sleeve when push came to shove.

But Emily Prentiss could not stop her voice from wavering tremendously as she pointed at the screens in front of them, setting her intense emotional discord for a few lucid seconds as she watched, startled, the newest developments on the computers.

Where before, there had been darkness, silence, and no movement, something was happening. Where before, there had been nothing and no one taking their attention besides their –

_ – dead –_

_fallen_ agent, there was now someone else in the room with the man.

Where before, there had been tears and anger and disbelief and ripping, aching grief, there was now anticipation along _with_ the anxiety as they all took in the sight of an incredibly jumpy, nervous and terrified-looking Tobias Hankel entering the cabin with their young genius, wringing his hands and pacing as he mumbled to himself.

Emily's eyes were fixed on the screen, but she was barely watching the way their unsub's long coat swished around his ankles as he stormed back and forth, frantic. Her thoughts were on Spencer Reid, and him alone.

She had only had the chance to work with the agent for a few months – but in that (_admittedly_) short time, she had come to care about the young man a very great deal. He was sweet and ambitious and determined – a wonderful mixture of weird and curious and strong and innocent. Like a child. Like a little brother.

She'd liked him right away, and had more recently started to become truly close with the young genius. Besides finding him fascinating to talk to, she was endeared of the man, drawn to him. She always wanted to see him smile, wanted to care for and protect him.

_It seemed, _she knew, that the whole team around her felt the same. Reid just had that kind of effect on people. They wanted to shield him, like it was their God-given duty to keep him safe.

Which was why seeing him being hurt, seeing him scared and threatened, seeing him bleeding and breaking and crying – seeing him looking worse each time his tortured image popped up on camera – was not only breaking her heart, but ripping it into a million dust-sized little pieces.

They all wanted nothing more than for their youngest agent to be okay. And it was torture in itself to _them,_ having to watch everything that Tobias put the man through, having to see how it was destroying someone they cared about so much.

And it was even worse, now that Reid was gone and his killer was just standing over him, watching, a curious expression on his face.

They watched him watching their –

_ – dead –_

friend, waiting, wondering what was next, what more the unsub could do, what he could _possibly _have in store.

Emily took in a sharp, pained breath as the man onscreen bent down, doing something with Reid's legs that his bulky frame blocked the camera from catching.

She liked to think of herself as a strong person, but Emily knew that if that _bastard _was messing with Reid's body –if he was mutilating it or _(God) _something worse – that she would lose it, right then and there. She would finally let loose the flood of tears behind her eyes, or get violently ill.

And then she would spend every second of every minute of every day of every year of the rest of her life hunting down Tobias Hankel until she found him, and she would kill him the way he had killed her colleague, and her friend.

_I swear . . ._

**XXX**

The entire team watched, silent, anticipated and scared and so very, very angry and sad, as the man who they all wanted nothing less than a painful death from bent over the cold body of their beloved Spencer Reid, and began pumping up and down on his chest.

_He was giving him CPR._

Hotch ran out of the room, just as much to get Gideon as to prevent himself from letting that small spark of hope be lit in his chest; Reid had been –

_– dead –_

for almost six minutes. The odds of him coming back now were negligible – if not nonexistent.

_Still, . . ._

Though none of them dared speak, all six of the closest people – the _family_ – of the FBI's youngest agent and resident genius were thinking some form of the same thing as they stood, paralyzed, and watched their unsub attempt to undo what might have been done.

_Please, God, let him survive this._

_Please._

* * *

**Author's Endnote: **Before I forget . . . the title of this work is borrowed from one of my favorite George Eliot quotes. _"The dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them." _. . . Still makes me cry, sometimes.


End file.
